


The Maker's Forgiveness

by Tafka



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Minor Blackwall/Josephine Montilyet, Unreliable Narrator, hero/villain relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8136889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tafka/pseuds/Tafka
Summary: Grand Duchess Florianne, now working for the Inquisition, believes Inquisitor Trevelyan to be naive, pious, and entirely too forgiving, and immediately sets herself to seduce her.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iambic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/gifts).



> thanks to OrilliaOrange for the beta!

“It’s only that I think that sometimes the Herald might be… _too_ forgiving.” Calla’s voice was soft, pitched low so as not to be heard except by her companion, but Florianne was an expert at hearing such whispers. It was second nature at this point, as she had better things to do than eavesdrop on conversations between a mere secretary and a common soldier, even if they may have been gossiping about her. Being the topic of conversation amongst Ambassador Montilyet’s underlings hardly ruffled her feathers, anyway. Especially since she agreed with them. 

Florianne felt that she knew Inquisitor Trevelyan well, for someone she had tried to kill, especially considering their most illuminating conversation beforehand. While a prisoner of the Inquisition, shackled and waiting to be lead to judgement, Florianne thought over everything she knew of the Inquisitor, that she was well-spoken, fair-minded, secretly tender-hearted and had a reputation of piety, and accurately calculated that she would escape capital punishment. She did not anticipate being brought into the Inquisition proper, under the province of their diplomatic advisor, nor did she think she would be allowed so much freedom after trying to enact a coup d'etat. If she were still loyal to Corypheus, the Inquisitor’s naive forgiveness would surely lead the entire world to ruin. Luckily for Thedas, she was not. Florianne would only serve Florianne now.

She took another sip of the cooling tea before her as she continued to wait for the Ambassador to appear for their appointment. She very carefully did not raise her eyes to the marked candle left burning for her benefit on the desk, nor to the high windows where the afternoon sun cast sharply angled sunbeams. Instead, she relied on her inner sense of the passage of time to determine exactly how late the Ambassador intended to be. The delay was well past “reinforcing my power over you” and into “making a specific statement about my low opinion of you as a person”, but Florianne was sure that she shouldn’t expect their appointment to begin before “purposely insulting you so as to distract from how necessary you are to our operations.” One third of a candlemark more, at least. 

Ambassador Montilyet knew Florianne would understand this, of course. She was most accomplished at the game, especially for one born of such a minor house, and Antivan as well. However, it was a necessary part of the game, and such formalities couldn’t be overlooked, even between such experts as they. The tea might have been better, and surely the Inquisition might have afforded such a luxury as a self-warming teapot if they were going to have a Grand Duchess working for them.

Her expectation was correct, and the Ambassador bustled in, all apologies, tailed by her secretary and a flurry of correspondence. Florianne was gracious and understanding of the “unavoidable delay” and insisted it was quite alright if she attended to a most urgent missive while she sipped her cold tea to hide her knowing smirk. 

Florianne observed quietly while Ambassador Montilyet wrote and her secretary bustled around organizing papers and arranging a large bundle of rhododendron in a vase on the corner of her desk. The Ambassador spared a glance at the unconventional bouquet, then her eyes immediately flickered to her guest, then down in embarrassment. It was a tell that showed her weakness in the Game. 

Of course, anyone would be embarrassed to be caught receiving favors from an unwashed Marcher, and it was common gossip that the Warden Blackwall was in the habit of sending her flowers. It was an even greater embarrassment to be courted by someone so uninformed in the language of flowers that he would send such an inauspicious bouquet; any experienced courtier knew rosebay rhododendron meant “beware.” Hardly a romantic sentiment. Florianne let her expression show through her mask so the Ambassador would know that she knew exactly what was going on. 

Perhaps to cover for her brief lapse, the Ambassador launched directly into the business of grilling the Grand Duchess on her associates in the Orlesian court. It was obviously a warm-up exercise, and in light of that Florianne remained relatively truthful to start. She made Ambassador Montilyet work for it, later, not out of any particular desire to foil the diplomat’s work, but one could not be seen to slip in the game over something so trivial as the end of the world.

After business was concluded, the Ambassador had one last task to assign. “The Inquisitor will be sitting in judgement of the prisoners from Adamant in three days time.”

“I am sure Andraste’s Herald will show them the light of the Maker’s forgiveness, as she has shown me.”

To her credit, the Ambassador did not give any sign of incredulity. “You will attend, of course.”

“Of course. I am ever so fond of her judgements.”

* * *

The great hall was full to bursting with Inquisition notables and various hangers-on. There was barely a clearing in the center for the accused to stand away from the crush of people. Above them all, Inquisitor Trevelyan sat on her magnificent throne, as serene and composed as always. Her auburn hair was wreathed in light from the stained glass windows above her, depicting her rescue by Andraste in the fade. The setting sun streamed through the glass of Andraste’s hair and flames, bathing the accused in a blood red corona. 

The effect was quite striking.

The minutiae of the proceedings were of no interest to the Grand Duchess. Some middling magister was set to work off his debts under the Nightingale, and a sad little Warden was sent to the chantry. Unrepentant Erimond got the axe. 

“How merciful the Herald is,” murmured the crowd as they dispersed, “How honorable, how just, how forgiving. How very much like blessed Andraste she is.”

Florianne watched with gimlet eye as Trevelyan moved among them, eyes modestly downcast, embarrassed by their praise.

* * *

The execution of Erimond happened after a fortnight, and Florianne did not bother to ask the Ambassador if she was required to attend. She made sure to secure a position farther back in the crowd, this time, however, to avoid staining her fine gown.

The Inquisitor performed the beheading herself, with her sword of office, temporarily removed from its ceremonial position over her throne. She was as composed as always, murmuring a few words of the chant to herself, which Florianne could only just hear from where she stood. No doubt those closer to the scaffold could hear chapter and verse.

She brought the shimmering blade down, swift and sure, ending Erimond’s life in the space between seconds. There was blood, but it hardly seemed to touch her, as though it was repulsed by her purity. The crowd, who were not so lucky, gasped in awe.

What a final insult to Erimond, upstaged at his own execution by an upstart Free Marcher with barely enough noble blood to claim a manor. 

It was glorious. _She_ was glorious, and she didn’t even realize it. She was a novice, playing the Game effortlessly, but without the direction of an experienced player.

Florianne had to possess her.

* * *

Skyhold’s chantry was small and simply decorated. The towering statue of Andraste was surrounded with dripping candles, and apart from worn benches and the ever-present stained glass, there was no other ornamentation. If it had been slightly larger or grander it would have been an insult to the Chantry to have the Herald worship in such a middling place. As it was, it was a most pious show of humility, which, in many cases, could be better than the grandest cathedral. If it had been done on purpose, it would be a masterful move in the great Game.

Florianne did not habitually come here, although it was prudent to attend services from time to time, but the Inquisitor did. It was easy enough to arrange her own visit to the small chantry to coincide with Trevelyan’s, and by arriving a quarter-hour before her, it wouldn’t even seem purposeful to the untrained eye.

She rose from her pretended prayers just as she saw Trevelyan shift as if to rise herself, so that they met in the aisle, and were obliged to greet each other. 

They exchanged the expected pleasantries, after which Florianne brought up the judgement. “I thought it was so clever, your solution to the problem of Ser Ruth.”

“Sending her to the Chantry? The Maker does grant his mercy to all who ask for it, and I felt it was truly the best place for her.” She paused, considering. “I am surprised that you approve, Grand Duchess.” Finally, at that, there was a glimmer of the woman Florianne had danced with at Halamshiral. “I didn’t know you to be a believer. But yes, the Maker grants his mercy to all who ask for it”

“Oh, please do call me Florianne, Inquisitor, as we do know each other so _very well._ ” She batted her eyelashes behind her mask, trying to make the Inquisitor blush with the implication that their dance had been more than it was. “I am just as much a fan of the Maker’s mercy as I am of dancing… or other pursuits.”

Was there more rosiness to the Inquisitor’s cheeks? This seduction might be easier than Florianne thought. It was always the sweet religious girls who fell at the slightest hint of flirtation. “Then you should call me Evelyn, if we are to be on such terms.”

“Oh, I could not dare to be so _intimate_ with the Herald of Andraste,” Florianne pressed one hand to her bosom, “Could I?”

The benches were beginning to fill for noontime services, and passing parishioners jostled them, obliging Florianne to step closer, her full skirts pressing up against Trevelyan’s legs, enveloping them both. She saw the small intake of breath at the comment.

“I do think you would dare quite a bit, Florianne,” she said, and it was as good as an invitation.

* * *

Later, Florianne found Evelyn on the balcony outside the great hall. She wondered, idly, that it might have less to do with coincidence, and more with a particular effort on Evelyn’s part. 

“Why Inquisitor, what a delight to see you again so soon.” Florianne affected less innocence this time, a risky move, but one that might push this conversation in the direction she desired.

“And here I thought we were on first name terms, Florianne, or should I stick to Your Grace?” Trevelyan’s tone was bold, bolder than expected.

“Only if you feel the need, Evelyn,” she replied smoothly. 

“I’m sure I’ll find the occasion.” 

How charming, the chantry mouse fancied herself the pursuer rather than the pursued. Untrained in the way of flirtation among the nobility, Evelyn couldn’t possibly realize she was implying something most scandalous. Florianne smiled wickedly, and put an end to that fancy. “You mean during the _dance_ you promised to save for me?”

“There is sadly no music here,” Evelyn gestured to the empty balcony, “but I suppose I could oblige.” She bowed gallantly and offered a hand.

Florianne laughed, not uncruelly. Did she think this was a romance? How very foolish. She took the offered hand, but not to dance. She trapped it between hers, like a butterfly that could be crushed at any moment.

“Evelyn,” she breathed, “I think we both know that we are more alike than we seem. You don’t have to pretend at modesty or chastity around me.” She leaned in until she was only a breath away. “But I think you know that, I think that is why you sought me out.” 

Evelyn gasped. Florianne took a moment and breathed deep, so Evelyn would feel her exhalation on her neck. She smelled of the henna she used on her hair. An intriguing discovery, and one of many to come. Evelyn nodded. Her had was shaking.

Florianne smiled in victory.

* * *

They did not sleep together that night, nor the next. And when Florianne did win her way into the Inquisitor’s chambers, it did not feel at all like the conquest she had expected. Outside the bedroom, Evelyn was still as reserved and untouchable as before Florianne had touched her wherever she pleased. 

It was less a seduction than a romance, after all. Florianne hadn’t any experience with the latter, but she supposed it might go this way. Every time she thought she had the upper hand, she woke the next morning to find them again on even footing. If it was a seduction, it was one she found herself repeating every night. A new game, but far from an unenjoyable one. Perhaps she would play along, for a time. 

Some small thought germinated in the back of her mind. _“We are more alike than we seem.”_ Somehow, she has found herself in a position that is far from the one she intended. 

She had not been bested, Florianne assured herself, she had merely allowed a slight alteration to her plan. That was all.

* * *

Another meeting with the Ambassador, another delay. This time, it was likely genuine; Evelyn had been holed up with her advisors and the Empress’ witch ever since they returned from the Arbor Wilds. Florianne pushed aside the feeling of neglect. She was not some swooning girl upset that her sweetheart didn't have time to make time. Still, she did plan to insist that Evelyn make it up to her later. 

She was temporarily gratified by the promising smile Evelyn gave her as their council let out, and Florianne plotted quietly while Ambassador Montilyet arranged her desk before their meeting.

There was another bunch of ill-suited flowers there from Warden Blackwall, now Thom Rainier, another recipient of Evelyn’s forgiveness. The bouquet was horrible; lavender wound around a sunflower. “Distrust” and “Pride” were poor sentiments to send to a lover.

But they were excellent messengers if one was a spy.

Florianne’s blood ran cold as she realized her miscalculation. Warden Blackwall was a backwater wild man who couldn't be expected to understand the subtle language of flowers, but _Thom Rainier_ had been at court, and had been known to seduce young pretty things with a posey or two. How could she have so miscalculated him? Or the Ambassador? What else had she missed under the assumption she was the reigning mistress of the Game?

And suddenly, it was all there, spread before her: the unassuming piety to win the love of the masses; the dyed red hair to evoke the martyred Andraste; the enemies spared, and turned to serve the Inquisition-- _the Maker’s mercy_. Dozens of nearly invisible strings, binding them all to the Inquisitor. There she saw, as pieces on a board; Madame Poulin, Servis, Ser Ruth, Thom Rainier, and herself, too; all sinners forgiven, all brought back to the fold, all forever indebted to their beloved Herald. 

Even Erimond had belonged to her, an uncooperative pawn sacrificed to further deify her in the eyes of her followers. A masterful move in a Game even greater than the one Florianne had mastered in the Orlesian court. All this time she had considered herself the most worthy opponent in Skyhold; if these intrigues were not meant for her, who were they against?

Her thoughts finally crystallizing, she paused at the entrance to the atrium, where the Inquisitor stood speaking to one of her mage companions. 

“Solas?” She heard Evelyn’s voice, syrupy sweet, “You were right. I realize now that there is so very much about the ancient elves that I just don’t understand. I should not have listened to Morrigan over you. But will you tell me now, please? The truth of things?”

She could not understand the low murmur of his reply, but he was no doubt as fooled by her appearance of naivety as Florianne had been. Whatever purpose Evelyn had at this moment, it was beyond Florianne’s knowledge. She backed away from the doorway, a piece not yet needed in the greater Game, but standing ready to be called on by the one who moved her.


End file.
